


Synchoresis

by rei_c



Series: Fundamental Image 'verse [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-19
Updated: 2006-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:47:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The brothers head to Arizona to investigate a string of unhcegila-related deaths and find their hunt, their friendship, and their lives in danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Knowledge

**Author's Note:**

> S1 spoilers, all the way through. Run-on sentences. Twisting of the postive psychology movement’s universal virtures. Any and all errors relative to established SPN-canon, Lakota or Tohono O’odham traditions, or the Tucson area spoken of herein are mine and mine alone. 
> 
> This ‘fic takes place six months after Persistence of Vision.

The crick-clack whirl of the fan above keeps sending Sam’s bangs into his eyes and he’s used to that, been used to it for years, so he looks confused when Dean says, “How can you _stand_ that?” He looks up from the laptop, says, “Stand what?” and moves a piece of hair out of the corner of his eyelashes without thinking about it, more attention on the dull throbbing ache of his right shoulder. “It’ll be a liability in a hunt,” Dean says, and Sam finally gets it when Dean adds, “Already has been.” Sam shakes his head, leans back in his chair and says, “I’m fine Dean. And I think I’ve got a lead.” Dean scoots his chair around the heavy table, looks over Sam’s shoulder and reads the article, muttering the key words under his breath, low enough that Sam wouldn’t have caught them if Dean’s mouth wasn’t so close to his ear. “Fourth murder in a month,” Dean says, elbow firmly planted on the table when he’s done. “They think it’s an animal or psycho, so why is this ours?” and Sam doesn’t mind the question because he sees the light of a new possible hunt in his brother’s eyes. “Dad’s journal. The region’s crawling with unhcegilas. He never figured out why so many were drawn south when they’re a part of Lakota tradition, but he was hunting there back in the nineties and caught one. He left us with Pastor Jim, remember?” and Sam’s words click something in Dean, because Dean stands, coiled and ready to spring, and grins. “Yeah, I remember.”

Sam doesn’t ask about the almost eager cast of Dean’s hands, fingers flexing as if they’re looking for a gun to hold, just bookmarks the relevant articles and finds more, about the area, unhcegilas, the missing people while Dean paces behind him, caged by the walls of the motel room. “Why don’t you go to the bar,” Sam says, “play some pool or something,” and Dean never stops moving, just changes direction, picks up keys and coat on the way. “I’ll try and hustle up some extra cash,” he says, then pauses at the door and looks back at Sam, who’s lean and damp in the heat, spread out and tired, and adds, “You wanna come with?” Sam waves half-heartedly and Dean grins and lets the door slam behind him. The sound of the Impala starting up, leaving, heading into town echoes in the room, and once the noise has diminished, Sam leans back and closes his eyes, rubs his forehead. 

He’s still sore from the werewolves they finished off the day before yesterday; they hadn’t really hurt him apart from a vicious swipe at his shoulder, but he’d never known that letting a strand of psychic power drift too close to a lycanthrope’s mind was like sticking a metaphysical finger in a generator. The resulting shock had thrown him fifty feet away, right into a tree, and the slide down hurt almost as much as the impact. Dean had rolled his eyes and almost punched Sam when Sam growled and let enough power slip through his shields to give Dean a taste of the feedback. 

Sam takes two aspirin, then four more, and digs nails into his palms, the pain from that much preferable than the headache, just enough to distract him so that he can’t feel the spike of sudden pressure in the back of his head when he lets one of the walls on his fire down and lifts everything five feet in the air. It eases some of the pressure but not enough, not nearly enough, and Sam wonders if someday he’ll just explode, trying to keep all of this power inside, in tight, neat compartments. It hurts too much, sometimes, leaves him shaking and unable to swallow, and Missouri’s called more than once to tell him to get a grip and at least take some vitamins. He feels like a freak on legs half the time, feels as if he’d be better off on some sort of psychic commune or, even, dead, but then he laughs, the sound echoing in the empty room, because it’s not the first time he’s had that thought and it’s not the first time that the thought following is something along the lines of _If I ever did that, Dean would resurrect me just so he could kill me himself_. 

Instead of sitting there any longer, Sam gets up and takes a shower, standing under the hot water until it turns cold. It’s really too hot for a hot shower, early summer in Oklahoma and they’re heading for Arizona tomorrow, but the heat makes Sam’s skin breathe easier and the forceful pounding’s as good as a massage, helps his muscles relax and he inhales the steam and hopes his head will wait for another day to split open. 

When he gets out, he puts on boxers and nothing else, leaves the bathroom and plummets to the bed, falling asleep in a near-feverish haze, not even bothering to turn the lights off or let everything drop back to the ground before he’s dreaming of Jess and werewolves and demons and fire. Sam wakes up when Dean comes back, tries to mumble something like _Sorry I left everything floating_ but which comes out as “Mrph” to the sound of falling furniture. He falls asleep almost as soon as that’s done, smelling beer and stale sex and salt. He wakes up again, it’s still dark outside, and Dean’s watching him, sitting on the other bed and just staring. Sam tries to smile, but his eyes are bleeding fever and he half-thinks maybe taking such a long, hot shower wasn’t that great of an idea before his eyelids close and he’s dreaming in cycles of years and lives. 

\--

He feels a hand hovering over his shoulder, can sense the imprint of each fingertip, the arc of each jagged nail, and reacts instinctively, reaching for a knife under the pillow. It's not there, and he hears Dean say, “Calm down, man. It's just me. You getting up any time soon?” and Sam wants to laugh but rolls and ends up falling off of the bed instead. The thump hurts, makes his already aching muscles scream in protest, and now he can't help it, laughing as he lays there, tangled up in sheets and aches and heat, inside and outside. Dean leans over and looks at him and says, “Dude. What the hell?” and that makes Sam laugh harder, until he can't breathe, vision clouded in spots and flames.

Dean calls Missouri, holds the phone above Sam so she can listen to the laughter before Dean puts the phone to his ear and asks, “What am I s’posed to be doing with him?” Sam thinks that’s even funnier and now he really can’t breathe, can’t do anything but lay there and convulse in laughter and slowly asphyxiate. Dean pops back over the edge of the bed, eyes narrowed, and says, “Missouri says you’re power-drunk after those damned werewolves. Idiot. And _I’m_ the one who went to the bar last night.” Dean stops, listens, then leans down and traces a rune over Sam’s right shoulder and the fading imprint of a werewolf’s paw. Sam shudders and gasps for breath, and Dean grins, says, “Hey, thanks, Missouri. Stupidhead’s breathing,” and hangs up.

“That’s the best you could come up with?” Sam wheezes, and at Dean’s puzzled look says, “Stupidhead? _So_ first grade, man,” and Dean snorts, retorts, “Says the man who got power-drunk from a _were-fucking-wolf_. What, beer not good enough for you anymore?” and Sam scowls because he’s going to be hearing about this for every second of their twelve-hundred mile trip, and probably after, and groans seeing Dean’s smile. He’s _definitely_ going to be hearing about this until he’s forty. It’s funny, but not, because he never asked for this gift or curse, he’s not sure what it is yet, and he’d give it all up in an instant, he hates having to learn things about it like this because it’s not like there’s a manual or support group or anything, and he flows to his feet with hard-earned grace, muscles protesting every movement. Dean’s still smiling but he’s watching Sam, and when Sam slams the bathroom door, he does so with unnecessary force, and hears a muffled, “ _Stupidhead_ ,” drift in from the room.

\--

They stop for gas as they’re leaving Muse, and Dean pays with the credit card and then makes Sam pump. It’s still early enough that it’s not outrageously hot and the sky’s not sunny or bright, either. In fact, it looks like a storm’s on the way, slowly rolling in from the west, and it’s been a while since Sam saw clouds move like that across flatlands like these, so he looks over at Dean and asks, “D’you think it’s safe to be driving into that?” and a trucker across the island hears him, studies the grey furling sky, and says, “Son, if I were you, I’d stay put ‘til that there passes through,” and Sam’s thinking that’s damn good advice, so he nods at the trucker and looks back at Dean. He knows Dean’s anxious to get moving, to get to the next job, doesn’t know why but doesn’t need to, so it’s no real surprise when Dean’s jaw tightens for a moment before he shakes his head. “We’ll see how far we can get,” Dean says, and before Sam can get back into the car, the trucker says, “Well, you boys pull over if it gets bad, y’hear?” and leaves in the other direction, outrunning the storm. “Good ol’ country boy,” Dean says as he slides into the Impala, Sam following on the passenger side a moment later and saying, “He was only being nice, Dean.” Dean grunts and turns the car on, pushes a Black Sabbath tape in the player, and pulls onto westbound highway 63.

The storm breaks not thirty miles later, one of those torrential downpours he could see coming, a clear line visible on the road marking exactly where the rain starts. Dean slows down slightly before they cross that line, then slams on the brakes once they’re in a solid sheet of rain, too thick and too fast for the windshield wipers to have any effect. “Can’t you do something?” Dean asks, and Sam turns and gapes in his brother’s general direction, feeling the move pull at his still-aching shoulder. “Dean, I’m not some kind of weather witch,” he says with a thread of disbelief in his tone, and he’s hurt and a little angry when Dean says, “Yeah, I’m asking too much here.” Sam narrows his eyes and says, “What is your problem?” like he’s ready to get out of the car and make this physical, but that all changes when Dean says, “I’m sorry, that was wrong. I just—we need to get there,” like he’s worried about something or someone and it reminds Sam of the way Dean sounded talking about Cassie, so Sam forces his muscles to relax, pulls out the map. “We could head south until we get out of the storm,” he offers after a few minutes during which the rain has, if anything, worsened. “Drive around Dallas if we have to,” and Dean thinks about that, then takes the next left. 

\--

When the sky’s cleared up enough to warrant sunglasses and they’re heading west again, Sam puts the map away and asks, “So what’s the hurry, Dean?” and doesn’t say anything for the ten minutes it takes Dean to reply, “A friend. He might be in trouble.” Sam’s thinking that over, asks, “Trouble as in he might be next?” and Dean sighs, says, “I dunno. But if it is an unhcegila, he’ll be involved somehow.” Sam chews on his lower lip, asks, “Involved somehow, how?” gently, cautiously, and doesn’t outwardly react when Dean snaps, “Just somehow, Sam, damn, leave it alone,” replies, “Yeah, all right,” and leans back in the seat to take a nap. 

\--

Sam dreams of fire, dreams of flame and heat, hungry and starving and deep, so deep, in his bones, like normal. But then it changes, the fire; it soars upwards and solidifies, turns blue and then white with heat, then Sam’s seeing things on it, like a movie, and then the fire pulls him inside and he’s living it. 

_Someone tied down, hands back behind, around, a pole. He can see the blood on the person’s wrists, see the bruises littering the half-dressed body, and he studies the symbol etched on the floor and carved onto a girl’s sweat-slick chest, as completely as he can in the seconds he has before his vision shifts to include a person shrouded in shadow, hears the chanting and a coyote howling, and watches with dispassionate disbelief as the tied-down girl screams and shifts, bones and muscles bulging under skin that’s splitting and re-knitting into scales and wings._

\--

He wakes up, not with a gasp or any noticeable jump, hearing slap-wet drizzle hitting the Impala’s roof, and Dean says, “It’s not a storm,” when Sam cracks his eyes open, “just rain. Nice nap?” and Sam’s not sure if it’s a good thing or not that Dean can’t tell when he has visions anymore. “Yeah, I guess,” then, after a moment, “no, not really,” and Dean says, “Why not?” because Sam knows Dean really does care about him. “Someone’s _making_ the unhcegilas,” Sam says, and Dean’s hands tighten on the wheel as his eyes turn narrow and lazy, a clear sign—to Sam, at least—that Dean’s pissed. “Vision?” Dean asks, and Sam’s almost afraid, with the way his brother looks, to say anything, but he’s a Winchester and not a coward, so “Yeah,” slips out of his mouth, somehow a confession, a statement of pride, and an apology all tumble-dried into the same admission. “Did you see who it was?” Dean asks, and Sam can almost swear that his brother’s hesitant, as if Dean doesn’t want to hear the answer, so Sam looks out of the window as he replies, “No. Just how it happens. If it’s current,” and his visions have never been anything but, so there’s no reason to think this one’ll be any different, “there’ll be another attack tonight.” 

\--

They stop for a break outside of Encino just before dawn. Sam’s headache isn’t bad, he’s getting used to the visions whether or not he wants to, but he’s been driving for eight hours now and Dean’s in no condition to switch off with him. Sam talks his brother into stopping, just for a few hours of sleep, so they pull off to the side of the road and sleep in the car for five hours, Dean in the front, Sam uncomfortably sprawled in the backseat, knees pulled up and elbows pressing into seat backs, hands losing feeling as they’re pillowed under his head. 

The sun, at seven, wakes Sam up, that and the fact that he’s slept long enough and has a cramp in one leg, so he sits up quietly and pulls out his phone. Thankfully, there’s a signal, so Sam uses his internet access to surf for any news about another attack. By the time Dean wakes up muttering about coffee, Sam’s found the articles and the sick sensation of being right is clawing at the walls of his stomach. Dean turns around to look at Sam, rubbing his eyes as he does, and stops mid-movement when their eyes meet. “A twenty-two year girl from the reservation,” Sam says softly. “They found her about five hundred feet from the mission church. Torn apart like the others.” Dean sighs and nods, and Sam moves to the front seat without another word, studying the article and memorising the relevant details as Dean turns on the Impala and they peal onto the road.


	2. Humanity

Tucson feels like a town rather than a city, and Sam remembers a few things as they drive through from years ago, when all three of them were together and in transit from a small town north of San Diego to an even smaller town south of Houston. It’s dry and hot and dusty, and even the sight of the mountains in the near distance isn’t enough to distract Sam from the curious sensation of burning inside and out, like something here speaks to him. There’s something else going on, though, a subtle sense that something indefinable is wrong, like a snag in the psychic or supernatural fabric around the area, stronger to the southwest but still present here, in the southeast.

He has Dean turn on the EMF in the motel parking lot which is, of course, silent, and not picking anything up, so he’s not surprised when Dean looks at him, as if to say, _Well?_ “Something off, but I don’t know what it is. Not a spirit or a demon, and I don’t know what an unhcegila feels like yet.” Dean makes a noise that Sam can’t interpret as anything but worry and maybe a little impatience, and when Dean wants to go check up on his friend before they can shower or even grab an hour’s sleep on a bed, Sam just says, “Okay,” and fits his body into the front passenger side, knees pulled up and legs cramping. 

Dean drives to a mall downtown and parks, leads Sam inside and to a store selling Native American-esque souvenirs, one of those places with lots of turquoise and dream-catchers, though Sam can honestly say he’s never been in a one of these stores that actually has dream-catchers glowing with the sort of light Sam’s come to expect from properly working and strong spells. It makes him come up short for a moment before he tightens the shields around his gift so much that he effectively goes power-blind, trapped in his own body and physical senses, and follows Dean with a little more wariness. Dean’s striding towards the back of the shop and tells Sam to hurry up as they both duck through a bead curtain. 

“Dean?” he hears, and turns slightly, automatically reaching for a knife before he sees that Dean’s standing still, looking, almost shyly, at the owner of that voice. Sam relaxes slightly, looks the person over as Dean stares, then smiles and says, “Adam.” Adam grins as well, flips glossy black hair off of his face and steps forward to give Dean a hug. Sam’s definitely puzzled now, but he waits until they move back from one another before clearing his throat. Dean jumps but Adam doesn’t, simply turns unreadable brown eyes on him and smiles. “This is Sam,” Dean says, and something in Adam shifts, a lessening in some tension or, perhaps, a different kind, as Adam says, “Stanford, right?” and Sam decides in that instant that he doesn’t care for Adam at all. 

“Yeah,” he says, and Adam says, “It’s good to finally be able to put a face with a name,” and Sam replies, “I’d say the same, but Dean’s never mentioned you before,” and he thinks _Point to me_ because lines around Adam’s eyes tighten after hearing that. Dean gives Sam a look and Sam smiles, turns on the innocent eyes, and is rewarded by an even less-subtle look. “I’ll be outside, give you two a chance to catch up,” Sam says and leaves, but not before hearing Adam say, “So, why’s he with you and not his cookie-cutter girlfriend?”

His power’s clamped down and it’s a good thing, too, because otherwise everything in the store would be pinned to the walls or floating near the ceiling, but it's a bad thing as well because the fire he’s mostly tamed by now picks up on his anger and starts screeching inside his skull, rattling around, begging to do something. Sam ignores it, pushes it back down into his bones, and ostensibly studies the greeting cards while he gets himself under control. There are the typical images of snow-covered wolves, tribal princesses, shaman, all those mass-marketed stereotypical pictures he really, really hates but at the bottom, half-hidden, the front of a card is graced with the image of a half-dragon, scales and wings, but two legs and standing upright, posed in front of mountains. 

“An unhcegila,” someone says from behind Sam and he turns, smiles at the woman looking at him through red-rimmed eyes. “I thought the unhcegila was Lakota,” he says, and her smile grows a bit wider, a little less artificial, as she replies, “Yes, it is. We’ve had several families from the Lakota nation move down here in the past fifty years, though, and they’ve brought their own beliefs to the upland. Not many people who come in here would know that.” Sam nods, eyes the turquoise and faux wolf-skin rugs, says, “I wouldn’t think so. I’m Sam; my brother Dean’s in the back with Adam,” and watches as her eyes gleam at his mention of Dean and then narrow at Adam’s name. 

“I’m Autumn,” she says. “It’s nice to meet you. I live on the reservation—have you been there yet?” At Sam’s puzzled look, Autumn says, “You must be here about the murders,” nodding at the card he’s still holding, “though I’m not really surprised your brother came here first, to see Adam. Don’t worry, I’ve been keeping an eye on him,” and Sam wonders why she bothers when it sounds like it’s a disgusting chore. He feels as if he’s been dropped into a situation he doesn’t understand at all and he doesn’t have time to ask any questions before Dean and Adam are emerging from the back, Adam looking blank and Dean holding himself the way Sam knows means his brother is uncomfortable and ready to leave. 

Mystery on top of mystery, especially as Autumn backs off, plucking the card out of Sam’s fingers as she moves to one side and begins straightening a rack of moccasins, not looking at Adam but giving him the rest of her attention. Sam feels a vision coming on, the sharp stabbing pain above his eyes that’s ready to ricochet through his temples and behind his ears, but he pushes it back for now, keeps it bubbling inside of lava, for later. It’ll hurt more then, exact it’s own revenge, but he can’t let it out now, not when Adam’s staring at him with an expectant look and Dean’s finishing off a triangle, closer to Sam than Adam but not by much. 

“Sam?” Dean’s saying, and Sam bites back says the pain, says, “Sorry, thinking. What’d you say?” Dean frowns but then says, “Adam invited us out to San Xavier for dinner tonight,” and Sam looks at Adam and figures the offer’s really for Dean but extended to him out of social courtesy and nothing more. He sees Autumn watching them from across the shop, and she nods once, slightly, so Sam replies, brightly, “Sounds great,” and doesn’t say anything else until he and Dean are walking back to the Impala. 

“We—or at least I—ought to shower,” he says, “and I should stop by the mission this afternoon, before we eat.” Dean stops as he’s opening the door and looks at Sam, sighs. “How long’ve you been holding it in?” Dean asks, and Sam thinks of telling the truth but decides to lie, says, “Just since we were leaving. Kind of hard to walk through a mall and have a vision at the same time,” but a small measure of bitterness flavours the words. “Jesus,” Dean mutters, getting into the Impala and closing the door with more force than normal, “you’re gonna need a full fucking night in church if we wait ‘til you get back to the motel. Can you do it in the car without vibing?” and Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, teeth clacking together as he counts to twenty in five different languages. “I don’t know,” he finally says, and Dean’s pulled out of their parking space and onto the road by the time Sam gets permission to have his vision in the car, but Dean’s “gonna kill you if you get us in a crash.”

Sam leans back and breathes in-beat-beat, out-beat, over and over and slowly starts to call the vision back out of his bones. Without warning but expecting it, the fire roars up, the vision slams into him and Sam’s _there_ , surrounded by brilliant, vibrant colours too painful to look at without wincing, sharp and shrill sounds that make his eardrums bleed. It happens this way when he pushes a vision to wait, after he discovered three months ago that putting the visions on hold was even possible but came with its own set of repercussions. He won’t get used to his hyper-senses, not here, so Sam grits his teeth and opens his eyes wider and takes everything in. 

_Desert, scorching and dry, weeds and cacti everywhere, covering the slope of the hill he’s standing on, one coyote peering over the ridge before running away with a howl. Sam moves as the vision prods him to, following the coyote over the edge of one hill, then another, making a mental map of his travelling, how many feet he walks, the types and patterning of flora, the sounds and smells, the taste of the air and feel of the dry heat around him. The coyote howls, then disappears around the side of a small building, and instead of tracking the animal farther, the vision takes Sam into the building. Once his eyes have adjusted to the darkness, he knows where he is, has seen the symbol etched on the floor before. The vision takes him backwards, then, in fast-rewind, until he standing in the parking lot of an old Spanish mission, bell ringing out the hour._


	3. Courage

Sam groans as he comes out of it, reaching to see how badly his ears and nose are bleeding. He finds tissue loosely stuffed in the shell of one ear, and Dean says, “Couldn’t reach the other one,” the volume making Sam whimper. “Almost at the motel,” Dean whispers; Sam knows it’s a whisper because of the rasp but it still sounds like shouting, so he screws his eyes closed tighter and covers his ears with his hands, cupping out the noise and sliding on thin trails of blood. 

Dean nudges him when they get to the motel and the physical contact makes Sam whimper again, the pressure magnified a thousand times and ricocheting all over his skin. “Sorry,” Dean breathes as Sam curls into as tight a ball as he possibly can, fingernails digging into the scalp above his ears. “So sorry but we’re here, Sammy. You can sleep for a while.” Sam doesn’t move, gathering his courage and trying to push the pain away for the moment it’ll take to get inside, and the next thing he knows, Dean says, “Jesus, Sam, come _on_ ,” and pain floods Sam’s body like water, soaking inwards from the skin. He bites back a shriek and tastes blood, jerks himself out of the car and across the parking lot to the motel room, teeth clenched and face white as Dean unlocks the door, trying to keep his muscles from seizing up. 

When the door’s open, Sam moves to the bathroom without stopping, closing the door silently behind him and turning on the taps in the bath, every drop of liquid hitting the bottom of the tub echoing in his head like gunshots. There’s not much water in the tub when Sam shuts the taps off but he can’t stand any more noise and he strips with as little movement as possible before folding himself into the water, letting the heat settle him even as it burns his skin, turns it a stinging bright red. It helps and hurts, and he voices one little choking sob before he bites down on his palm to keep from making more sound. He waits for Dean to say something from the room, make a joke or see if Sam’s all right, but there’s silence and Dean doesn’t say anything. Sam’s not even sure if Dean’s out there, and the thought chills him, makes him shiver even sitting in boiling hot water and he doesn’t call out, doesn’t ask for his brother, because if Dean isn’t there, Sam doesn’t want to know. 

He blanks out, staring at the wall, thinking of nothing but pain and heat and need, until the water turns cold and there’s someone knocking at the bathroom door, little taps that mean Dean’s out there and using his nails and not knuckles, and Sam sits up, assesses his condition, and says, “I’ll be out in a minute,” like he wasn’t about ready to rob a hospital for morphine however long ago, which reminds him to ask, “What time is it?” There’s a pause before Dean answers, “It’s three. I still need to shower before we leave for the mission.” Only two hours, then, and he’s feeling so much better which means he’s either building up some sort of resistance or the pain from the vision wasn’t as bad as he thought. 

He gets out and realises that all of his clothes are in the room, so he wraps a towel around his waist after drying off and opens the door. Dean jumps and turns, like he wasn’t really expecting Sam to be that quick, and then his eyes are wide, surprised, when he sees Sam, who, for his part, reaches up to make sure he’s scrubbed off all the blood from his ears and nose. “What?” he asks, and watches, puzzled, as Dean grabs some clothes and disappears into the bathroom without saying a word. Sam waits, looks at his clothes, and asks, “Did you put itching powder in my clothes again?” He hears muttering but has to ask, “Did you?” again before Dean shouts, “ _No_!” and the shower turns on. With a suspicious look at the closed door, Sam pulls clothes from the bottom of his bag, shakes them out rather viciously, and dresses quickly, the contact on his skin prickles, mildly uncomfortable, but nothing that might suggest he’s recovering from a halfway-awful vision and nothing that starts itching. 

He sits down gingerly, the mattress giving way underneath him, and searches his bag for his rosary and his knife, tucking the latter into the back of his jeans, the curve of cold metal comforting as it settles where it belongs, and sliding the former between his fingers, soaking in the cold feeling of a redwood-tree cross and beads of chalcedony strung on thin silver. It was Jess’ rosary, back when he first met her, freshmen living across the hall from each other at Stanford, the first present she ever gave him, and every time it runs across his fingertips, he thinks of her hands, warm and soft, pressing the rosary into his palm after the first Advent Mass, remembers the smell of her peppermint-licked skin, can taste the way she looked at him, aches at her words, audible even now, “ _To chase away your demons, Sam. You have so many of them,_ ” because he lied to her and she knew it but loved him anyway. He lied to her, and she died for him, and he will never, ever forgive himself. 

Sam doesn’t realise he’s just sitting there, staring at the prayer beads, until Dean sits next to him, bed dipping under the weight of another Winchester. He looks up, looks at Dean, and then away, because he’s too trapped in the memory of Jess to even think about asking Dean what’s going on, what that look on Dean’s face means, and is almost relieved when Dean only says, “You ready to go?” though the tone seems harsh, grating on Sam’s heartstrings. Sam grips the rosary tighter, holds it like a shield to his chest, and puts on his shoes before saying, “Yeah,” like a broken man. 

\--

The drive to the mission is quiet. Neither of them talk and the only noise is a quietly-played Pink Floyd tape; ‘Wish You Were Here’ comes on as they cross under the highway and drive on to the reservation. Sam doesn’t believe in coincidence and has come to detest irony, so he grits his teeth and ignores the way Dean’s looking at him. This isn’t a comfortable silence, like when they’re both lost in their own thoughts and that’s all right or when they don’t need to speak to know what the other’s thinking, and it isn’t a hunting silence either, where the slightest noise could get them killed. It’s like running into someone you’d been avoiding because if you didn’t, there’s going to be a knock-down fight or a shitload of screaming, and Sam wonders how things could go wrong again between them so quickly.

As he thinks and Dean drives, though, Sam realises it _hasn’t_ been something quick, but something slow and insidious, almost healed when they killed the demon but slowly breaking ever since, speeding up with every vision and reaching killer-avalanche proportion when the rest of his power kicked in back in Arkansas. Little things that have been piling up on each other, times it looked like Dean wanted to say something but didn’t, times when Sam did something with his power and Dean just looked away, times when Sam thought that maybe Dean had had enough of him but wasn’t brave enough to ask, times when they should have been brothers but something always got in the way. 

Thinking of that makes Sam think of Dean’s outburst in the Impala on the way here and the way Dean reacted when Sam confessed to holding a vision and it all starts to fit together. He has officially freaked the fuck out of his brother, proven himself to be useless and wasting space and time on the hunt, and he would’ve been upset or angry if he’d thought of this before, but he’s holding Jess’ rosary and Dean’s pulling up to the mission and he’s so tired and achy that maybe Dean’s right, because they could be out looking for an unhcegila right now—could’ve been all afternoon—and instead Dean has to play babysitter because Sam’s a psychic freakshow. 

He gets out of the car without saying anything and Dean gets out as well, and Sam’s grateful that his brother wants to be there for him, but he can’t do this with Dean there, here, anywhere around. “You don’t have to stay,” he says, clutching the rosary, and then adds, “I can catch up. Don’t you want some time with Adam?” and he’s surprised when Dean glares. “You got something to say, Sam, just say it,” Dean says, and Sam cocks his head, studies the way Dean’s standing, like he’s ready to pound someone into hamburger, says, “About what?” honestly curious. Dean scoffs and looks away, moves so that his back’s to Sam, and that action combined with the fact that he _knows_ now what Dean thinks of him makes him so weary that he starts trudging over the sand to the doors of San Xavier del Bac. He’s nearly there when Dean calls out, “I’ll be back to pick you up in an hour,” and Sam waves a hand over his shoulder, chalcedony beads catching the light and refracting it, before opening the doors and walking inside. 

The mission is beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful church he’s ever been in, though it’s not as large as others or overly ornate despite the rich painting and gold inlays everywhere. Part of it, he’s sure, has to do with the feeling of history it carries worked into every stone and the calm quietude of sanctuary. Sam crosses himself and sighs as the Holy Water stings against the naked skin of his forehead and fingertips, a familiar feeling, something that grounds him and gives him the strength to walk farther inside and slide into the back row, kneeling and genuflecting in the aisle and then again, as he pulls out the kneeler and settles down, rosary in hand. 

“ _Deus meus_ ,” he begins, murmurs echoing slightly in the domes and arches of the mission, “ _firmiter credo Te esse unum Deum in tribus distinctus Personis, Patre, Filio, et Spiritu Sancto,_ ” and the words flow out of him, sure and steady, as he moves on to pray the decades afterwards, beads gliding through his fingers and across his palm, until he’s lost in the prayers and the sensation of pure and perfect peace. 

It doesn’t last long once he reaches the end, crosses himself, and opens his eyes, sitting up on the chair, knees popping with the movement after sitting still for so long. A brother-priest is standing near the front, looks as though he’s been waiting for Sam to finish, and when Sam exhales deeply and smiles, the brother moves to sit in the row in front of Sam, halfway turned to talk. “I don’t usually see people your age with such devotion to the traditional meditations,” he says, and Sam ducks his head, hiding behind his bangs and rubbing one of the larger, separating beads between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s something I have to do,” Sam says, simply, not looking up, and the brother reaches over to pat Sam on the shoulder, says, “God sees your devotion, and your penitence,” and Sam looks up sharply. 

The brother laughs, the sound echoing around the church, then asks, “Do you not wish to confess before you repent? Or is this an old, familiar action you know the consequences of?” and Sam tenses, moving out from under the brother’s hand. The older man pauses, stops smiling and eventually says, “Now I must ask for forgiveness. I meant nothing by my words except curiosity that I might be able to help. I apologise,” and he looks so upset with himself that Sam can’t help but smile and say, “It’s all right. It’s just,” and he pauses, searching for a way to explain how he feels, then says, “been hard lately.” The brother nods and asks if Sam wants to talk about it, under the Seal, and Sam says yes and then little more for the time it takes to gather his thoughts. 

“My brother and I, we’ve been travelling across the country. Road-tripping, I guess, sort of our own version of Kerouac,” and Sam’s not really that surprised to see the brother nod and smile in recognition. “And things have happened. We’ve changed,” he goes on, “or at least I have. It’s been good and bad, both, but lately I’ve been feeling like maybe my brother doesn’t want me around anymore, like I’ve changed too much, and we’ve always been close but he’s not talking to me and I can’t always talk to him, and I just feel,” he trails off, and the brother says, “Lost. You feel lost,” and Sam nods, feels a cavern in his heart stretch out, carved there by Jess’ death and now made so much worse, because Dean’s had enough of him. 

“Family is hard,” the brother says, “even our Lord experienced that during His time on earth. Have you talked to your brother about this?” and Sam shakes his head, rubs his eyes. “He’d never admit to it,” he says, and the friar nods. “Talk to him and see if he feels the way you think he does. If not, then perhaps you can be reconciled. And if so, perhaps all you need is a break from each other. Two people in one car, across this country—sometimes all that’s needed is a little space. No matter his answer, though, I think you’re already doing the best thing in seeking out God, who is our Perfect Companion in all things.” 

The brother leaves Sam alone and wondering if it’s sacrilegious or blasphemous that he’d rather have Dean at his back, holding a shotgun, than God. After a minute of staring up at the crucifix above the altar, Sam drops to his knees again, kneeling silently, both his mind and body still, rosary clutched in his hands as he prays for something without words, without knowing what it is he’s praying for, but knowing that he needs to, needs this. 

\--

He hears movement in the church, a new presence, and his muscles go rigid before he recognises the gait of Dean’s cocksure strut, opens his eyes and crosses himself, standing up and stretching. “Better?” Dean asks, and Sam says, “I guess.” Dean doesn’t genuflect or cover himself in Holy Water as they leave; Dean never really believed like Sam does, or if he does, Sam’s never seen an expression of faith, not even at Pastor Jim’s. Thinking of that makes Sam stop outside in the parking lot, makes him ask, “Dean?” and Dean stops, looks at Sam warily, says, “Yeah?” Sam’s not sure how to ask the question he wants to, so instead he asks, “What’s the story with you and Adam? I mean, how do you know him?” and Dean’s definitely tense now. 

“Why?” Dean asks, and Sam’s taken aback at the suspicious tone, so he says, feeling the last slice of peace he’d found in the mission slide away, “Autumn doesn’t like him and she knows you. She expected us. When did you come here before?” Dean says, “Does this really matter?” and Sam can see the wall between them growing taller, wider, he figures _what’s one more brick?_ and says, “Yes, I think it does,” and Dean’s frozen, lips pressed together, and Sam wants to cry, he’s got an answer, but the feel of Jess’ rosary in his hand and the fire uncurling from sleep in his bones swallows his sobs before he can breathe them and licks up his tears before he can cry them. He just nods and lies, gently, “Go back to Adam, Dean. I’ll be all right,” and turns his back to Dean, letting the sun soak his face in heat. 

Footsteps crunch on the sand then Dean’s standing behind him, breath on the back of Sam’s neck hot and angry. “I came out here with dad while you were at Stanford,” Dean says, “after he found out about another unhcegila hunting on the reservation. That’s when I met Adam, and, yeah, we fucked a few times. Autumn’s a nice girl but she’s jealous of the attention Adam gets because he’s a better shaman than she could ever dream of being. Now, are you telling me to leave because you’re _not_ done here or because you _finally_ figured out that I fuck guys as well as girls?” Sam laughs, then realises maybe he shouldn’t have, not when he hears Dean growl, so he says, “I didn’t know. I just, you don’t need me. I’m holding you back,” and Dean growls again, says, “Did one of those fucking priests tell you that or are you trying to get me to punch you for being such a goddamned idiot?” 

Sam doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move as Dean circles to stand in front of him, eyes narrowed to slits. “What the hell’s going on, Sam?” Dean hisses, and Sam says, “I can survive on my own, Dean,” which is true but hurts to say because he doesn’t _want_ to, not when he’s been so happy with Dean and that’s such a selfish thing to feel, knowing that Dean doesn’t feel the same way but won’t admit it. “I don’t need a babysitter,” Sam says, something that’s probably a lie, and Dean’s face turns white in the span of a blink. “Fine,” Dean finally says, like something inside of him has snapped, and Sam’s tempted, so tempted, to take it back, but he just says, “We just need some space, is all.” As Dean leaves, Sam stares at the mountains, listening as the Impala turns on and the car drives away, Dean inside, forever this time. Sam looks at the view, feels heat and then déjà vu as the mission bell begins to ring and the shadow of a coyote howls across the desert sand.


	4. Temperance

Sam doesn’t move at first, letting the weight of his vision settle on his shoulders and he’s torn between following the path he’s already walked or taking out his phone and calling Dean. He misses his brother already, needs his brother back like he needs to breathe, but Dean let him go all those years ago so Sam can summon the strength from somewhere and return the favour, he _can_. He takes the first step towards the hills and the building, mind already tracing the route he took in his vision and transposing it to reality, and tries not to think of Dean, tries to ignore the empty space next to him in favour of getting ready for the hunt. 

The knife gets pulled out almost as soon as Sam steps off of hallowed ground—he can feel it now, the tear in the psychic fabric here, feel the safety of the church calling for him to come back, as he palms the handle and tilts the blade to stop the sunlight from glinting off of it and revealing his position. Sam hangs the rosary around his neck and lets the press of the cross and the beads against his skin steady him, help him focus, draw him in to the hunt until he can’t think of anything except finding that building and razing it. The barriers on his power are tight, he doesn’t want to announce his presence or draw the attention of who- or whatever’s responsible for the choking feeling of ‘wrong’ and ‘pain’ and ‘death.’ Inside of him, the fire’s prowling and stalking and ready to fight, angry that it can’t. Sam keeps walking, footsteps sure and steady on the hills, following the sound of a phantom coyote and the remembered path, the same smell filtering up his nostrils, the same taste pulling him closer to his destination.

When he reaches the top of the next hill, Sam pauses next to a cactus and studies the building, the small shed or whatever it is, eyes casting over the solid walls, the one, small door, the lack of tracks outside, though the breeze is stirring now and playing with sand, sending it spiralling up into the air and gliding on currents Sam can feel sting against his cheek. This is, to say the least, a logistical nightmare; there’s no cover once he heads downhill and no way to see if there’s anything in the building short of the astral, but there’s no way in hell he’s about to leave his body defenceless when the stench of psychic sickness has only grown the closer he’s gotten to this shed. He thinks of calling Dean but discards the idea as soon as he has it, Dean’s free of him now and probably happier for it, and just in case, Sam turns his phone off, a slight pang of regret stabbing at him before he can block it off. 

There’s really no other way to do this, so Sam stretches and walks down, no pretence, no hesitation. Nothing stops him, no one jumps out at him, and he reaches the door, grips the knife loose and ready, and opens the door. It’s dark inside, and it takes Sam’s eyes a moment to adjust, but when he looks around, the room is empty, shadows flitting in the corners. A coyote’s howl drifts in through the open door as Sam kneels next to the symbol etched into the floor, studying it, what’s been done. The floor’s stucco, he thinks, and the symbol has been carved _into_ it, narrow but deep channels connecting to a circle that goes ‘round the symbol and the pole that the victims are tied to. He can’t recognise the symbol, though there are elements within it that strike a chord, the suggestion of a wheel, the line of a buffalo’s back, that make him think Plains Indian, maybe Lakota. 

Sam puts it together, a Lakota tribesman, shaman, maybe, taking a Tohono O’odham girl and tying her down, filling the channels on the floor with blood from echoing symbols carved in her skin, a spell, and then she becomes an unhcegila. As he stands, though, looks around the room again, it strikes him that there’s nothing for the unhcegila to do but die; there’s only been one victim each time, the person-turned-creature, and they can’t very well maul themselves. There’s no motivation that he can see, and that’s disturbing, and as he hears another coyote howl, he feels a shiver, like someone is watching him. No one else is in the building, though, no one came in, and there’s no noise from outside, so Sam keeps one eye on the door before he reaches in his back pocket for a book of matches. As he takes one out, he pauses, hearing the crunch of sand under feet, and swears internally, moving to the shadows. A coyote trots in, the same one Sam saw in his vision, so he steps forward and the coyote turns to look at him and smiles. Sam frowns, confused, then doesn’t have time to react when the coyote flows upwards and forms into Adam and Adam reaches out, says something, and the shockwave of a powerful spell knocks Sam unconscious. 

\--

Sam doesn’t make any move to suggest he’s awake, but it’s hard. He has a headache that might mean his fire tried to drag him into the astral but couldn’t, though it could also just be the result of his head hitting the stucco floor. Probably a combination of both, and he wonders if he might be able to reach the psychic plane, send out a request for help or his brother, but when he tries to reach sideways, he hits a barrier that almost knocks him out again and remembers the circle, sinkingly guesses that he’s in it and tied to the pole. He takes stock as quietly as he can, thinks that maybe it’s just the headache and sore wrists, and then he lays a trail of how he got here and all he can think is that Dean better be all right or he’ll level the whole fucking state. Adam, it was Adam all this time, and Autumn, did she know or guess that the stupid man had been a skinwalker this whole time? Did Dean? If he hadn’t locked his power up so tightly in the store or out here, would _he_ have felt it? 

Too many questions and no way to get the answers tied up like this, so Sam opens his eyes and searches the darkness, ignoring the pain and discomfort. No light under the door, which either means that this place is locked up tighter than Fort Knox on payday or it’s night and it’s been hours since he was knocked out. His knife is gone and his t-shirt, shoes, all tucked in a corner, though he still has his rosary, beads radiating cold comfort against his skin. The Swiss Army knife in his back pocket is gone, as are the matches, and the rope feels like nylon twine, too strong for him to just break and too tight to wiggle out of. His power’s trapped, just like he is, and he doesn’t have the finesse yet to lift the pole out of the ground or untie the rope, but he’s still got his rosary and Adam’s gone, Adam and his blank, laughing eyes. 

He breathes out, even and steady, then in, calming his body and mind, focusing his eyes on the door across the room as he begins to recite prayer after prayer, prayers of protection, blessing, exorcism, prayers for strength, aid, courage, and even if he’s still tied here, he’s at least prepared. Sam figure he ought to try his power now that he’s calm, and he controls it, channels it down his hands, and pushes with part of it, holding the rest back, and nearly screams when it burns outwards but does nothing else. He tries it again, adding words, things like ‘Please work’ and ‘Oh, God,’ but he’s still sitting there, tied to the pole, when his head hurts too much to push any farther. If he hadn’t sent Dean away earlier, if he hadn’t _driven his brother away_ , but Sam shakes his head, that is not a good road of ‘what if’s to start heading down, not at all. He prays again, a wordless plea for mercy, and he doesn’t know how long he’s been praying for when the door opens and Adam walks in. 

Sam holds his breath and Adam stalks around him, checks the ropes and tightens them, twine digging into the burns Sam’s caused by his struggles and power both, trails a hand across Sam’s shoulders that makes Sam shiver, try to get away. He never thought anything could be worse than Meg straddling his legs, breathing her way up his neck, but this, this is worse. “I’d be curious to know if you and Dean were separating to hunt the unhcegilas, cover more ground in less time,” Adam says, walking to the corner and picking up Sam’s knife, stroking it. Sam feels like gagging, but then Adam goes on, says, “But he’s been at my house all evening.” 

Sam’s mouth goes dry because a demon holding a knife like that is pretty self-explanatory, and he’s relatively sure Adam’s going to start drawing pictures on Sam’s chest, but there’s no telling with humans and Adam stands on the outside edge of the circle, dark eyes unreadable, and says, “You must’ve said some awful things to him, Sam. He looked pretty shaken up.” Adam’s lying, because Dean would never look anything less than cocky and arrogant in front of strangers and Sam is _not_ wrong, Dean only needs a little time to see that this was the right decision. “Nothing to say, Sam?” Adam asks, and Sam shudders at the tone, at the almost gentle way Adam’s looking at him. “Why?” Sam asks, voice catching and rasping, so he says, “Why are you doing this? The Tohono O’odham, the unhcegila,” and Adam actually smiles, a full-on smile, as he replies, “I needed something worthwhile to hunt.”

Sam stares, then closes his eyes, lets his head thunk back against the pole, because Adam’s just like the Benders, only he’s hunting in his coyote-form and not with guns in rural Minnesota. “You turn people into unhcegilas, a temporary transmutation, and hunt them, and they revert to humans when they die,” and Adam crouches, looks at Sam, points the knife at Sam and says, “Not them. You.” It’s almost enough to make Sam laugh, but he’s still wearing his rosary and either Adam thinks that the spell is stronger than Sam’s faith or that Sam doesn’t actually believe, but that doesn’t seem to matter when Adam enters the circle and traces the knife over Sam’s chest, not hard enough to draw blood, yet. 

_Inside the circle_ , Sam thinks, and tries to strike out with his power, but nothing happens, and it finally hits Sam that he is tied to a pole, alone, and a psychopath is going to use his knife, Sam’s favourite knife, to turn him into a legendary beast for the singular purpose of hunting him, and he can do _nothing_. Adam is sitting on Sam’s legs, the knife is starting to catch on Sam’s skin, and Adam is focused, as if he’s Michaelangelo tracing out David in a block of marble. “Fuck,” Sam breathes, and Adam looks up, eyes lit with distraction, says, “Your brother, later, after you’re dead,” and Sam’s fighting with everything he can, body, mind, and belief, but nothing makes any difference.


	5. Justice

Adam eventually uses another spell to make Sam more docile, saying something about not tiring out the prey, and Sam glares until the knife’s point presses against his breastbone and draws down, flaying his skin open and sending blood racing down his body and into the channels of the symbol carved on the ground. Sam screams, there’s no shame in it because it _hurts_ and this way he can still think, though his mind’s racing in useless circles. The next cut goes deeper, swirls on his stomach, and he’s not sure on the third draw of the knife whether he’s screaming in pain or in denial of the immense power he can feel condensing inside of the circle. 

Sam’s used to pain, used to aches and breaks and sprains, but this deliberate slicing, this power, it hurts in ways he’s only beginning to understand. Now he sees why Missouri doesn’t ever use blood for her scrying, sees why the loa-ridden place so much emphasis on blood and willingness, _knows_ what he thought he knew before. In a haze of pain, panicked fire beating red-orange wings in his vision, the smell of blood, his own blood, choking him, something clicks, some lesson he passed the test on but never really grasped, and he thinks, _So this is the power of blood_ , and screams again as Adam moves behind him and starts cutting smaller designs into Sam’s arms and palms. 

“It’s a good knife,” Adam says, holding Sam’s limp left hand and carving a wheel on the mount of Venus, one line extending out and bisecting Sam’s palm. “Cuts clean. I might have to keep it,” and Sam can’t even glare, just lets tears pour down his cheeks as Adam begins on the other arm. 

He doesn’t know how long it lasts, how much blood he's had to lose to fill the symbol, power the spell, but he breathes a ragged sigh of relief when Adam gets up and surveys the results of all those wounds. “You have strong blood,” Adam says, eyes glancing over Sam’s chest and Sam wishes something would remind Adam he’s crazy, not a fucking artist, but there’s no one else there and Sam’s too screamed out to talk at this point. “You’ll make a good unhcegila,” Adam goes on, throwing the knife back in the corner without even cleaning the blade, and Sam’s vaguely offended, “one my ancestors would have been proud to hunt.” 

Sam laughs, starts to cough, because that’s almost funny, says, “Your ancestors hunted _real_ unhcegilas, not humans wearing their skin,” and Adam merely smiles at that, like Sam said something funny, and then stands up and moves out of the circle. Without Adam, the power coalesces even more, until Sam can almost swear the symbols carved into him are vibrating, shaking, ready and anxious for the order to do what they were put there to do. That, and the look on Adam’s face, worries Sam, makes him put out one last-ditch effort. “You don’t need to do this, Adam; it isn’t right,” but of course Adam’s one of those patient crazies and just shakes his head before holding out his hands, palms to the ceiling, and begins to chant. 

Screams fill the building and it honestly surprises Sam when he realises he’s the one screaming because he thought he’d shredded his voice already. The chant keeps going, floating in his ears, harmonic counterpoint weaving in and out of the screams, and the symbols on his skin, carved into him, are moving, digging, burrowing into him as the power in the circle gathers itself and leaps at Sam, flattening him. His muscles and bones shift, and he screams soundlessly, voice gone, mind reverting to Latin in his panic, _Misericordia, misericordia, Deus meus, Pater, misericordia_ , and like it works, the rosary around his neck flares with light, burns his skin and Sam can see the brightness through his eyelids so he keeps them closed and starts the Magnificant as he can _feel_ the rosary’s light meet Adam’s spell and hold. The prayer wakes his power, gives it something to focus on, and Sam lets the barriers in his mind go, letting the fire merge with the prayer, and the world shifts on its axis. 

Missouri and Jeannie taught him, what seems like ages and aeons ago, that once power’s called, it has to do something, it can’t just go back where it came from. The power Adam called up used Sam’s blood but it can’t finish the way it wants to because Sam’s protected, so it finds another way and Sam’s left gasping in an empty circle as something outside roars. Adam’s slumped against the wall on the other side of the building, apparently finding it hard to sit up and that makes Sam feel so much better at not being able to breathe or move. He looks down at his rosary, now quiescent, as if nothing happened, but there’s a ring of burns on his skin where the beads are laying and the skin in the space under the cross is cracked and bleeding. His power is slowly going back behind tighter walls when Adam asks, a little hesitantly, “What _are_ you?” and Sam says, simply, “I believe.” 

Adam nods, pushes himself to sit up without the wall’s help but slumps back on to it a moment later, trembling, and Sam almost feels sorry for the psycho because he knows about what Adam feels like right now, has been there more than once himself. “Yeah, but what else?” Adam asks, eyes fixed on Sam and voice unsteady. “I mean, witch? Psychic? Demon’s descendent?” and that last one strikes a little too close to home. “I’m just Sam,” he says, leaning against the pole, and shivers when he hears that roar outside again. Adam turns white and Sam manages to ask, “What?” before Adam shushes him and tries again to stand up. 

“You can’t use the blood of the shadow-less for transmutations. If I’d known, I would’ve left you alone. Dean never told me,” and he stops, turning paler still when the roar sounds again, closer. “Please don’t tell me you just _created_ an unhcegila,” Sam says, and Adam shakes his head, says, “No one’s ever used this ritual on a person who was part spirit,” and that just pisses Sam off, people not doing all of the research and creating situations like this, where he’s tied to a _pole_ , the other guy’s responsible and too deep in shock to be any help, their most useful weapon in a corner that neither of them will be seeing soon, with a possible half-dragon outside and coming their way. “Can you get to the knife and untie me?” Sam asks, but Adam’s just sitting there, glassy-eyed, which obviously means no, and doesn’t this just _suck_.

The whole situation is just absurd and Sam wants to laugh, he really does, but it’s physically impossible and then it’s just all-around impossible when there’s a scratch at the door and everything slows down as Sam’s eyes focus on the handle, watching as it smooth-glide turns, and then the door opens, something darts through, and the door closes. Sam’s not moving and Adam’s out of it and he wonders which of them the unhcegila will go for first in the split-second before a flashlight clicks on, and it’s _Dean_. Sam stares, inhales, smells Dean _here_ and there’s no way his imagination or any demon could mimic that scent so perfectly, and while Sam’s trying to figure out how to ask a million questions, Dean’s got Sam’s hands untied, cleaned up the knife and pressed it into Sam’s palm without looking at the cuts there, eyes focused on Sam’s chest, on the symbol, and then finally Adam, still conscious-yet-comatose. “Busy night,” Dean says, as he slaps Adam once, twice, and then promptly ignores the sputtering man to tend to Sam, who’s saying, “Mhmm,” without any thought, mind saying the same thing over and over. _Dean’s here. Dean’s here_.

Dean goes to the door, opens it and whistles and Sam frowns when he hears an answering whistle, and then a roar. “Autumn’s hunting it, keeping it busy,” Dean says, pulling one of Sam’s arms around his shoulders and lifting Sam up, and Sam groans as his wounds stretch, leak a little more blood. There’s a whine in the corner, and when Sam looks he sees a coyote where Adam had been laying, standing up unsteadily. Dean ignores it, carrying Sam out of the building and towards the mission, and Sam can hear four padded footsteps follow them out of the building and then start awkwardly loping in the other direction. “We’re going to have to talk, Sammy,” Dean says, halfway up the first hill, and Sam mumbles something that sort of comes out like, “M’kay,” and then three gunshots echo over the desert. Dean pauses but then keeps going, and they’re almost at the mission when they hear another shot cut off a coyote in mid-howl. 

The Impala’s parked where it was hours ago, where Dean dropped him off at and where Dean tried to pick him up at, and Sam gets dragged over to it, propped in the back seat, as his brother opens a bottle of peroxide and a bottle of Holy Water and pours. Sam’s not sure which one burns and which one stings, but it wakes him up enough to warn Dean via fingerpointing about the figure silhouetted on the nearest hill. Dean turns to look but then turns his attention back to Sam, says, “Autumn, remember?” and Sam shakes his head and watches Autumn walk over to them, shotgun in one hand, dragging the remnants of a coyote’s carcass with the other. Sam blinks, then closes his eyes, exhausted from arguments and blood loss and power and spells, half asleep as it is, Dean’s touches soothing as they bandage him up. He finally lets go of the knife, doesn’t move as the hilt bounces off of the car and hits the dust, and when Dean picks it up, his fingers must slide on the sticky grip and he must understand what that means, because he’s finally holding Sam’s hands gently, dabbing them with a peroxide-soaked rag, wrapping them up in clean cloth. Sam’s almost asleep when he hears Autumn say something about the elders, and he smiles when Dean says, “Good,” slipping in to sleep and the astral.


	6. Transcendence

Fire, fire, nothing but fire, flames and heat, sparks and need, desperation and hunger, and he wants to cry because he’s safe, finally. The dead come in droves, those who long to move on, those who are tired of being bodiless souls, those who are eager for the next adventure, and Sam stands there, patient and safe, but most of all happy, and lets ghostly, formless fingers slide through him, touch his fire, and disappear forever. He’s not dead, he was saved, Dean came, and it’ll end when he wakes up, will have to end, but for now, here, he can help the dead, and he can be happy. 

\--

He shifts when he wakes up, just a little movement, nothing major, a flex in muscles or a slight roll, perhaps, but it pulls his skin and he groans at the feeling. “Sam?” he hears, and cracks open one eye, then the other, vision swimming until he blinks the world into focus. Dean’s there, hovering, and Sam says, “Dean,” like the entire world is contained in that one word, his brother’s name, and he’s not sure how it feels when he thinks that may hold more truth than he necessarily wants to admit to. “How do you feel?” Dean asks, and if Sam thought he’d be capable of laughter, he’d be in hysterics right now, but he settles for a smile and says, “Like crap, idiot,” but his tone is fond, so Dean doesn’t take it personally, just relaxes a little and sits back. 

Sam hears a door open and tries to turn his head before he remembers it’s going to hurt, so he stops halfway through and eventually Autumn enters his field of vision, along with a tray she’s carrying. “The Tohono O’odham owe you our gratitude,” she says lightly, smiling at Sam as she sets the tray down somewhere that Sam can’t see. “If it wasn’t for you, we would’ve been looking for the _wicasa wakan_ for much longer.” Sam says, “But you were already watching him,” and Autumn sighs, says, “Not for this, though. Someone’s been embezzling at one of the casinos, and the elders asked several trusted people to watch a few of the others. I didn’t even know Adam was a _yenadlooshi_ , which doesn’t say a lot for my powers of observation, but we all knew he was good with spells. When Dean told us about everything, it wasn’t hard to put together.”

She pauses, makes Sam drink some medicated tea and checks his bandages efficiently, tries to get him to eat some soup before asking, “We just have one question. Why didn’t the _yuwipi_ work on you?” Sam looks at Dean, who shakes his head, and gets the message; it’s Sam’s gift, so Sam can either ‘fess up or lie on his own. “Adam called me one of the shadow-less,” he finally says, wondering if the term will translate between the two nations, but apparently it does because Autumn’s eyes widen and she leans forward, searching Sam’s face. “I couldn’t tell,” she says, almost scared, and Sam’s tired. “I’ve been blocking it, mostly,” he says and her eyes widen farther as she gets up and backs away. 

Sam’s seen that look more than once, so it doesn’t bother him as much as it once did when Autumn mumbles another platitude and practically bolts out of the door, is resigned to it and waiting for Dean to follow, but when he looks at his brother, Dean’s glaring at the door and at Sam, one to the other and back. “Why didn’t you stop her?” Dean asks, and Sam’s about ready to close his eyes and fall back asleep when Dean’s nails are digging in the only uninjured part of Sam’s arm, so Sam looks at his brother. “We need to talk, and we’re going to do this now,” Dean says, and Sam opens his mouth to argue, but doesn’t get any further because Dean’s grip is tighter as he says, “No, Sam. _Now_ ,” and so Sam nods, tries not to let sleep and whatever pain meds were in that tea lull him away. 

Dean leans down and holds Sam gaze, just content to look at Sam, and Sam gets used to the quiet, used to the way his brother’s searching him, studying, much like Autumn did but without the visible terror. Sam doesn’t look too deep, convinced that the disgust is still there but just buried, and Dean must see this in Sam’s face, this or the resignation, the knowledge, that Dean has to leave, that Dean’s too weirded out by all of this to need Sam as much as Sam needs his brother, because Dean glares and says, “You’re wrong and you’re too fucking stupid to see it, aren’t you?” and Sam thinks maybe this is the part where Dean kills him, so he’s caught off-guard when Dean says, “Do it.”

Sam blinks and says, “Do what?” and Dean breathes out through his nose, says, “Sammy, you’re my brother, and yeah, I love you, but sometimes you can be the most thick-headed idiot that ever lived,” and Sam’s about ready to disagree when Dean goes on, “I know you’ve been thinking about it, maybe ever since Missouri’s, and if it’s the only way I’ll convince you that I’m not leaving you, _ever_ , then I want you to do it,” and now Sam gets it. “You want me to try and read your mind,” he whispers, eyes wide at the thought because that is just going too far, that is too much and everyone who’s ever known a psychic knows that and even if Sam’s a lanmò-mennen or one of the shadow-less or whatever people are calling him this week, he still counts. 

“Dean,” he begins, shaking his head, but Dean’s quicker, says, “I’m giving you permission, Sam,” like that’s the end of the argument and maybe it is, because Sam _has_ been wanting to do this since they left Missouri’s six months ago, _has_ been wondering what Dean’s thinking behind the mask everyone sees, and now Dean’s telling him, ordering him to do it. “I don’t know if I can,” he whispers, sees some of the tension holding Dean’s shoulders rigid dissolve from his brother’s frame. “Well, you can try,” Dean says, and then adds, “and try hard, none of this emo college-kid crap,” and Sam wants to smile at that but he’s going to _read Dean’s mind_ , so he just nods instead. 

Sam moves, wincing as he does, and reaches out to lay a hand on Dean’s cheek, saying something about physical contact making things easier and less painful, and Dean nods, shifts in the chair, stubbled jaw scraping across Sam’s bandaged palm, and Sam doesn’t want to admit that it just feels good to touch his brother, to know that Dean’s there and willing to be there, to let him do this. Sam smiles and closes his eyes, and breathes out with his mind, and then he’s soaring in Dean’s thoughts, all of the things Dean thinks and believes but never says, and he almost wants to cry at the sensation of being intertwined so entirely in the mind of another person.

He shudders and sinks and catches a wisp of memory that leaves him aching and ready to sob, feeling what Dean felt hours ago, yesterday, when Sam stayed at the mission and Dean left, turns and feels the crystal-clear rage Dean descended into when he realised Adam had taken Sam, gets bowled over by the sheer immense relief Dean felt when he saw Sam still alive and mostly whole, waiting. Sam looks down, sees things writhing beneath a shimmering layer of glass, and almost smiles at the thought of Dean trying to hide things here, because it’s so Dean to let Sam in, to trust Sam not to look, so Sam turns his gaze upwards and expands his presence until he finds the trail of connected thoughts, memories, emotions he came here to seek out. 

They’re strong, too much to take in at once but Sam does, and the intensity, the force, knocks him back into his own body, out of Dean’s mind, and he can feel Dean’s eyes on him as he tries to separate everything and make sense of what he felt. Trepidation for what this all means, worry that it will overtake Sam, fear that it might be too much, but underneath everything there’s acceptance and determination and love, so much willingness to protect Sam and be there, always, for as long as Sam will have him. It makes him shake, crying without tears or noise, and he can only look at Dean with tear-bright eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, and Dean says, “I know,” then waits before asking, “Do you believe me now?” like there’s still some chance that Sam will force Dean to leave, or maybe just take off on his own, and Sam doesn’t feel any pain as he sits up and throws his arms around Dean, hugging him tight, amazed, again and again, that his brother is there, will put up with him and never leave no matter what new psychic thing he comes up with next.

\--

Sam wakes up, the room dark, and he reaches out for Dean, but his brother’s not there. He starts to panic, wonders if this was all a dream or a vision, but someone leans forward next to the bed and says, “It’s all right. Your brother’s gone to meet with the tribal elders,” and Sam recognises the brother from the mission. He relaxes, and the friar relaxes, and they sit there in silence for a few minutes before the brother says, “It is an awesome thing, faith,” and Sam nods hesitantly, unsure where this is going. “Your brother, he has faith in you, equal, I think, to the faith you have in God,” and Sam says, “No human can carry that,” though the brother smiles at says, “No human needs to carry it alone,” and Sam follows the brother’s gaze to the rosary resting on the night-table between the two beds, Jess’ rosary. 

He breathes out, smiles, says, “Yeah,” and sits up. It hurts to move but not as much as the last time he was awake, so Sam goes in to the bathroom to take a shower, and when he comes out, Dean’s there, grinning. “We can stay here until you’re healed up,” Dean says, holding two styrofoam cups of coffee and offering Sam one of them. “The elders want to talk to you about Adam, and the shaman’s about ready to kidnap you to poke around in your geekboy brain. We’re gonna be staying on the reservation, so get packed,” and Sam looks around, silently pointing out that they haven’t exactly unpacked, and Dean rolls his eyes. 

“Dean,” Sam says, but Dean cuts him off, shifts on his feet and says, “Hey, no chick-flick moments, okay?” and Sam laughs. They clean everything up, bandages and salt and weapons, and are driving to the reservation when Dean mutters, “Stupidhead,” and Sam’s skin is really too tender to be laughing this much.


End file.
